


Portrait of a Testy Secretary of State In Dishabille

by MenaceAnon



Series: The Gallery [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, in which Jefferson just can't win
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 17:31:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11362221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenaceAnon/pseuds/MenaceAnon
Summary: For the Tumblr prompt: A "Hope We Don’t Get Caught" KissHamilton, Jefferson, a small closet, and a whole bushelful of mistakes.





	Portrait of a Testy Secretary of State In Dishabille

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for sexual themes and strong language. Rated M to be safe.
> 
> You do not need to have read [Portrait of a Sad Secretary of State Who Has Just Knocked Over A CVS](http://archiveofourown.org/works/9665267), though if you like this you'll probably like that. The only reason this is a series is because they technically take place in the same 'verse — though the mood is completely different, and a bunch of stuff happens between the two pieces. Oops.
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr at [MenaceAnon](http://www.menaceanon.tumblr.com)!

Doors in the Washington White House are not for slamming, but Thomas's exit still scatters people in the hall like a thunderhead. He doesn’t snarl at least, he makes sure of that, though the tension of it pulls at the shape of his lips.

Fucking _Hamilton_. 

George is blinded by his affection. Thomas doesn't need to be the favored son, that's not the nature of his relationship with Washington anyway, but occasional support from the President would go a long damn way. Thomas is his _Secretary of State._

And Hamilton is so comfortable, throwing punches from the top of his little hill. Well, let it be clear, then, that Jefferson does not intend to simply stand there and receive them. 

Escape, however, may prove more difficult than anticipated. “Excuse— get out of the way thanks—” Steps behind him, and then, who else? 

“What do you want,” Thomas snarls. He glances at Alex, at the smirk burning a curl into the corner of his lips, and at the bundle of his cuff around his forearm. 

Hamilton maneuvers himself in front of Thomas, twisting to walk backward. “We were in the middle of a conversation—” 

“Oh so you did notice me standing there, trying to participate.” 

“—but since you’re apparently a child who stomps off when he doesn’t get his way—” 

“You had both sides of that conversation covered, and if I wanted to watch a one-man comedy of errors I would support my local theater.” 

“You were—” Hamilton begins as they take a corner, and Thomas snarls over him. 

“And if I wanted someone to put words in my mouth then I would call my sister Mary. But you are neither a fond community fixture, nor have you earned my patience the hard way, so kindly get _out of my—_ ” 

And then Hamilton has one hand hovering over Thomas’s shoulder. With his other arm stretched out in front of Thomas like a baffle he tilts their trajectory into an open doorway on the right, and Thomas thinks, first, _you have five seconds to earn my time_ , and second, _this is not Hamilton’s office._

In fact it’s barely even a room so much as a large closet, cramped with packaged reams of paper, boxes of toner, paperclips and other desk supplies. A corner of one shelf is dedicated to a trove of Advil, and one box is open to reveal a jumble of individual foil packets. The back wall is dominated by a copy machine that takes up a full third of the room. 

Thomas pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and middle fingers, eyes the Advil from under the hood of his palm, then drops his hand and rounds on Hamilton. 

Who has closed the door behind them, and whose eyes are decidedly not on Thomas’s face. 

Thomas swallows, then shakes his head. 

“Yer really fuckin’ somethin’,” he spits. 

Hamilton grins. “Would you feel better if I said you were just off your game in there?” 

Thomas leans in. “ _Not_ what I’m talking about.” 

“Ohh, you meant for dragging you in here.” He’s still grinning, and he tips his head and pushes off the door, closing in. Thomas, with his back to the copier, watches him draw near like the inevitable creep of a vine, and feels his shoulders lift toward his ears. “You’re welcome to leave.” 

“Last week,” Thomas says through his teeth, “was a mistake, Hamilton. You and I both agreed on that, that it would never happen again. This—” he wags his finger between them, “is never happening again.” 

Hamilton’s hair is down today, Thomas suspects more as a result of not having a hairband than by design, but it’s glossy and dark around the oval of his face. Smug hunger is in every line of his expression, from the creases of his eyes to the tilt of his lips. It’s a look Thomas has glimpsed during their most vicious political encounters, the battles they wage when Hamilton really, really wants something, when he knows he’s right, when he’s ready to drag Thomas tooth and claw to submission so he can get it. 

Being the locus of that stare is like standing under the eye of a noon-desert sun. 

“You’re welcome to leave,” Hamilton repeats, slow and deep. Not loud, because by now he’s all but standing on Thomas’s toes. 

The smell of him — cheap shampoo and cinnamon gum, overlaying something warm and gingery that Thomas knows he can chase down in the juncture of Hamilton’s neck — recalls vividly the one night that Thomas has spent the last seven trying to forget. He closes his eyes; catches himself inhaling and opens them again immediately. 

“We _work_ here, that door doesn’t even _lock_ , this is the _White House_ , Washington would—” he wraps his fingers over his mouth. 

Hamilton gives a delicate little huff, and Thomas is startled, gratified, _furious_ , to recognize it as relief. “We’ll be quick,” is all he says. 

“Fuck,” Thomas spits. “ _Fuck!_ ” 

Hamilton’s lips are hot and dry and soft, and his teeth bang Thomas’s bottom lip, his tongue working into Thomas almost immediately and tasting of bitter black coffee. _Demanding. Terrible—_ Thomas thinks; licks back at him and hooks his fingers in the soft hair behind Hamilton’s ear. The backs of his legs hit the copier, and it beeps and warbles as the heel of his hand slaps down on the flat array of the touch screen. 

On his back foot, always, _always_. He snarls into the kiss, but Hamilton’s fingers are squeezing the flesh of his hip, making him squirm and pant, and he catches Hamilton’s lip with his teeth to suppress a whine. Hamilton wins that too, extracts it from him a moment later when he works a knee up between Thomas’s legs, coils a fist in his hair and _pulls_. 

Teeth scrape his jaw, where his beard ends on his throat, and Thomas gasps, tips his head back, and wonders: Why the hell are they doing this and why the _hell_ did it take them so long? He lets his weight settle on the thigh between his legs, closes his eyes, and bares his teeth. 

Hamilton reels him back in and Thomas goes. He lets the bony shape of Alexander’s hands guide him, and sinks gratefully back into the shocking heat of his mouth. Hums and opens and only bites a little as a thumb drags rough circles into his flank, creeps along the waist of his pants and tugs the tongue of his belt free, folds the button of his fly over until it slips loose of the eye, drags the zipper tooth by tooth— 

Then someone gasps, and it’s not Thomas, and it’s not Alexander either. 

They stare at one another, tangled, panting. It takes Thomas an eternal ten seconds to drag his eyes to the door over Hamilton’s shoulder. 

Angelica says, “No please. Don’t stop on my account.” 

“Oh. Shit,” Hamilton breathes, no louder than a slip of air against Thomas’s ear. He twists about, the bare minimum to glance over his shoulder, then snaps his eyes shut. 

Jefferson looks down at himself. At the rumpled shirt and the state of his fly and the knee between his legs. His face is so hot he can feel a headache coming on, and he wants to nudge Hamilton away except then Angelica will be able to see exactly how far this got. 

He says, “Please close the door.” 

Her lips seal together, twitching uncontrollably, but she manages a wobbly little nod before ducking back out of the room and pressing the door closed behind her. 

Ten seconds of breathless silence pass, and then, from the other side of the door, a snort and a strangled giggle. From the sound, her forehead is pressed to the door, and there’s a soft thud after that might be a fist. 

“Right,” she croaks through the wood. “I’ll come back for it.” And then her heels doppler slowly down the hall. 

Thomas exhales very slowly. He tips his head forward, dizzy with not-quite-relief. With a few quick tugs, he does up his fly and closes his belt. 

He’s going to go sit in his office with the lights off until his brain picks an emotion. 

“Great. Great talk,” he says, and eases around Hamilton. But before he makes it to the door Alexander presses, long and warm, against his back. Sets one scorching-hot hand against the inside of his knee, and drags it up, up— and then around, to his pelvis, to his belly, and Thomas wants to growl at him for that, but he only closes his eyes as Hamilton’s hand slips under his jacket, as he guides two fingers through the space between the buttons of his shirt to touch the skin-warm tank beneath. 

“My place. Nine o’clock. Come. Or don’t.” 

And then he’s gone.

Thomas touches the tips of his fingers to his lips, to the place on his chest where Hamilton touched him. Then he scrubs a hand down his face.

“Fuck.” 


End file.
